


Awaken my behemoth and you will disenthral my heart

by Baryshnikov



Series: Where Monsters lie [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Cannibalistic awakening, Dark Harry Potter, Dreams vs. Reality, Hallucinations, Insanity, M/M, POV Second Person, Sensual gore, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Did I turn you into a monster?Or did you do that all by yourself?





	Awaken my behemoth and you will disenthral my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally say this, but please heed the tags, this is self-indulgent erotic cannibalism (is that even a thing?) at its absolute worst, and probably should never have been written (I am so sorry, its really not my best). That being said, if this is your thing I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> From Harry's perspective.

_Did I turn you into a monster?_

_Or did you do that all by yourself?_

 

Those words, though they come from no mouth, they rattle around your skull.

 

You’re panting and dizzy, the edge of reality hazing before your eyes, nothing has ever made you feel exactly like this before.  
There had been some occasions, girls with dark eyes that smiled at you because you were special, and boys with blonde hair that you watched because you were curious about what it felt like to be between their thighs. But this is different. This feels real, even though it isn’t.  
He came to you months ago under the guise of empty nightmares and stayed far longer than you expected, slowly spilling out into every single dream until he practically walking beside you. Always there with his smile and glittering eyes.  
You know there is something wrong with him, you know, because his face is always blurred, frayed at the edges as if it were simply stitched on. But you know there is nothing wrong with him, he is just special, he is just like you. He always says that other people cannot ever hope to understand what its like to be one of a kind, to be the single shining star in a world of darkness is something they could never understand. But _he_ does. _He_ understands. He is the only one who knows how lonely the world is, the only one who knows the glances and gazes and glares of other people, the ones who will never appreciate your true worth because they are too jealous of your power. His words speak to you like no one else’s ever have, and you cannot help the aching inside you. The one that is always so much worse when he’s with you. Screwing deeper into your stomach when he smiles, screwing deeper when he touches your arm, screwing deeper when his hand stays forever on the back of your neck. Screwing so deep you fear you have a hole right through your stomach, one that will never be filled unless he lets you do something you don’t understand.  
Though you can’t complain, everything he does is for you. Even now he is lying on his back for you. Lying exposed and vulnerable _only_ for you. He says he would never do this for anyone else, and you believe him. He is so particular about his friends, so selective. But is because he is special, he says that you’re special too. That you’re very special, that you have so much potential running through your veins if you’d only be willing to share it with the world.  
He first told you that as he held your neck, fingertips on the edge of your spine, sending shivers through your body and heating your face far too much. He repeats it now, sitting up so he can put his hand on your neck again, telling you how brilliant you could be if you only let go, let your heart rule instead of your head. He says it all with such sincerity that you have to agree.  
He lies back again and undoes his shirt, offering you anything you want. You want nothing more than touch him, to run your clumsy fingers over things you’ve never been allowed to touch before. To feel what another boy’s skin feels like, to taste another boy’s mouth, press it against your own and prove to him that you are so very special. He doesn’t try and stop you, only lies there with his hands by his sides. You don’t mind, you like him docile, eyes so still, just watching you. You like him so much that you don’t mind that his face is blurred, and his features are sliding, all because you are finally allowed to sample his lips. You’re just tired that’s all, that is why there is static before your eyes and a ringing in your ears.  
You kiss his mouth. Gently at first, but then his hands are on your neck and you just have to kiss again. Harder. Messier. Wilder. Savager. Your teeth grating against his lips, biting down again and again and again until you feel yourself sliding on something sticky. His lip has split and there is blood dribbling from his mouth. It is jarring to see, to see that you are capable of things you shouldn’t be, to see that that there is so much power in your mouth alone. It might be just a dream, but it jolts you out of your passivity as though your face has collided with concrete.  
He is still smiling but now it is wider, red staining his teeth, and you’re panting and dizzy, the edge of reality hazing before your eyes, nothing has ever made you feel exactly like this before. You want to bite into his shoulder, peel back the skin from his neck and swallow him down. Feel the blood as it seeps into your mouth, taste it on your tongue, savour it as it curls down your throat and into your stomach. You no longer want, but simply need to have him inside you, have his demons screaming in your heart and all his sins smeared across your skin. The way he looks at you shows he understands, he knows what its like to be starving, to have a craving you can’t eradicate, to be at mercy to the things inside your head. He has seen it all before within himself. He is the only one who will ever understand.  
You have to touch him, feel his hot skin, feel the tainted muscles and perverted bones that he hides beneath a thin layer of normality. Leaning over him, you can feel his ribs as they crack beneath your fingers, feel the hum that reverberates through his flesh when he groans, feel the pulsing of his organs as they beg to feel your teeth against their surface. All he wants is for you to be satisfied, to have that need deep within you sated, to finally fill the holes that life has left behind. Your heart quickens, and black spots distort your vision, you are so close to being complete, so close to finally ridding yourself of that empty void that hangs in the cavity you call your chest. Are you at his mercy or fulfilling your destiny? You can no longer tell, nor do you care. So long as his glossy words are with you, you don’t need to care. So long as he smiles and guides your hands, so long as he praises your every move, you don’t have a care in the world. His admiration, his approval, his wonder, it is all you need to sustain you. That constant tangible feeling that now hangs in the air, the solid that ties you and him together in this historic moment.  
Lying with your ear to his chest; his heart beats so loud, a pulsating metronome beneath his skin, urging you forward, igniting the longing in your stomach. The simple need to have him inside you. He watches with his black eyes as you run your tongue down his chest, bumping over what’s left of his ribs. You hook your teeth under the last one and bite.  
The tear you make instantly starts to bleed. Dark flows of red spill from his body, they run down his sides, staining waterways as they go. You trace those flows with your fingers, streaking the blood over his body, drawing your story in red ink across his canvas. Marking with childish crosses where you next want to dig your teeth into. You watch as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back when you trail a wet line up his stomach, so you continue, guiding your steady line up his sternum, pausing to paint his collarbones red and persisting with your perfect lines right up his throat.  
His breathing is so loud in the silence, reminding you both that he is the only other living thing in your world that really matters anymore. The only one who knows what it feels like to have bloody hands pressed against other people’s throats. You could stay there forever, fingers pressed to his pulse, feeling the constant pounding, staring at the blood that has dried around his mouth. But you want to feel more of him, want to know what it feels like to be buried inside someone so special.  
His groans are undeniably erotic when you push your fingers in, pulling the laceration wider, coating your fingers in wetness, the tissue collecting beneath your nails. You curve your spine, leaning over him and licking the now exposed flesh. He tastes so sweet, perfumed, almost floral it blossoms, spreading over your tongue and spilling down your throat before you can stop yourself, and when you start, you really can’t stop.  
Digging your tongue deeper inside him, scraping along the bone, he is so hot and wet and dripping with blood. You can hear how he shifts below you, fingers scratching in the duvet, back arching, giving you greater and greater access to his body. You mouth more but it’s not enough. You have to get inside him, run your hands and tongue over his organs and bite chunks out until he begs you to stop. Your teeth slit the flesh open and your fingers pull him wide. You never thought it could be this easy to tear someone apart. This easy to rip him open and claw your fingers inside. This easy to scratch at the bones and squidge your fingers between the tissue.  
It is filthy and disgusting, obscene and grotesque, carnal and pornographic, but you can’t stop. You have to dip your mouth into the gaping hole. Feel the wetness cling to your chin and gush over your glasses. You’ve never felt as breathless as when your tongue wraps around his lungs, tracing every bronchiole and simply listening to the innermost workings of his body. The things that he keeps private from everyone, apart from you. How you’ve ever lived without this you don’t understand, without this intimacy, you are nothing, without him with his heart bared beneath you, you are nothing. You touch that still-beating heart, smooth over the surface and watch how he writhes; jaw so slack and face sliding. How he moans when you tear out his heart, cries out as you strip its pink flesh back and swallow it down, so warm and so good inside you. You take another bite and you swallow, and you swallow, and you swallow until your throat is clogged.  
There is beauty in the carnage of your dreams. Beauty in this needed slaughter. Beauty in how your gorge yourself on his body. How you glut yourself on his candyfloss lungs, and sate that aching inside you with his liquorice liver. He has shown you what you can be, and you are so grateful. He still smiles, even now because he knows, just as you do, that you have filled those holes deep inside you, filled them with him. He is so far inside of you that you will never get him and you never want to, for now, you’re panting and dizzy, the edge of reality hazing before your eyes, nothing has ever made you feel exactly like this before. 

You wake up to a wetness on your fingertips. The morning is grey and cold and when you rub your eyes, you spread something sticky across your face. You fumble for your glasses. They are stained, the bottom half steeped in red. You put them on anyway, determined to see what has happened in your bed.  
You are not alone, and you cannot breathe. Lying beside you is something mangled and red, torn open and frayed at the edges. Your hands shake as you turn it over to see its face. It is not him. You don’t recognise the mauled corpse that you share your bed with. But you do recognise the blood dried brown around its mouth, the straight line down what’s left of its throat. You recognise your fingerprints and your teeth marks, and the blood on your hands; and you feel sick. That warmth, that flesh that you filled your mouth with over and over and over, now sits in your stomach, cold and coagulating: you can still taste it, sticky in the back of your throat. You want to vomit, but you can’t, because deep in your heart, where the sickness prevails, you are proud of what you have done, and you know he is too. 

 

You hear it again then, those words, though they come from no mouth, they rattle around your skull. 

 

 _Did I turn you into a monster?_

_Or did you do that all by yourself?_


End file.
